


baila pa’ mi

by rjtondale



Series: oasis team [1]
Category: Bad Bunny, J. Balvin - Fandom, Music RPF
Genre: Best Friends, Challenges, Dare, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hotel Sex, M/M, Oasis, Oasis Team, One Night Stands, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 09:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20337739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjtondale/pseuds/rjtondale
Summary: José laughs and looks around, probably searching for something to throw at Benito. When he doesn’t find anything, he says, “Ah, go fuck yourself.”“Why don’t you fuck me instead, cabrón?”“I -- what?”





	baila pa’ mi

“Benito, open your mouth,” José calls.

He does without a second thought. A moment later, a grape bounces off his cheek. “What the fuck, man?” Benito calls back. “If you’re going to throw shit at me, at least don’t _miss_.”

José can’t answer -- he’s doubled over laughing. The room is loud, crowded, but Benito catches the editor of some music magazine whose name he’s already forgotten rolling her eyes. As if an eye-roll has ever stopped them before.

Benito picks the grape up off his lap and lobs it at José, who stops laughing for just long enough to catch it in his hand. “Nice try.” He pops it into his mouth, sending Benito a closed-lipped, closed-eyed smile as he chews.

“Pendejo,” Benito mutters, but he’s smiling, too.

“Move over,” José says, and Benito does. José sits down heavily on the couch beside him. “Did you try these cookies? They’re amazing.”

“Aren’t you dieting?”

“Shouldn’t _you_ be dieting?”

“Ouch.” Benito swipes one of the miniature cookies off José’s plate and takes a bite before he can protest. From anyone else, the comment on his weight may have hurt, but from José, it just bounces off. Almost nothing they say to each other is that serious.

One of the other partygoers starts talking at him again, but Benito doesn’t care what she has to say anymore. He turns to José instead. “Hey, you know what you should do?”

“What?”

“Find out how many of these cookies you can fit in your mouth.”

José dissolves into laughter again, nearly dropping his half-full plate. Benito instinctively reaches out to stabilize it, but when his fingers brush José’s, he jerks his hand back. José doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already halfway to standing, probably going toward the refreshment tables. It had been a joke, Benito’s dare, but he knew José would do it anyway.

He’s going to miss this. The little challenges, little jokes. There’s a reason it took twice as long as it should’ve to record the album. When they’re together, they jump from thought to thought, each trying to read the other’s mind, anticipate his next move, surprise him, like the world’s fastest-paced game of chess. If chess involved shoving eight cookies into your mouth at once.

“Your turn,” José chokes as soon as he’s able to speak.

But just as Benito reaches for the plate, the editor rolls her eyes again. His hand slows, then stops.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Benito pauses, biting his lip, his laughter fading. A thought occurs to him -- another dare -- but maybe this one is better left unsaid.

As if on cue, Benito’s brother passes them and catches them looking at each other. “Get a room, you two,” he says.

That sounds like a challenge, too, and neither Benito nor José are the type to pass up a challenge. José clears his throat. “I think I need some air, actually. Benito?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Benito repeats.

* * *

A minute later, they’re in José’s hotel suite. They can still hear the party from across the hall, but it’s nice to have a breath of relative quiet for once. _An oasis_, whispers a tiny voice in Benito’s brain, and this time he’s the one rolling his eyes at himself. Another thought better left unsaid.

“Have a seat,” José says, and Benito does. José sprawls across the sofa, one foot on the floor and the other propped up on the cushions, while Benito tries to get comfortable in one of the room’s stiff chairs.

Benito watches José. He’s on his phone as always -- probably posting on Instagram -- but he looks like he could fall asleep at any second. He’s so close. Benito could reach out and touch him without moving from his own seat. In fact, he almost does, when José looks up and catches Benito staring.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he says.

“Okay,” Benito replies, and he does, snapping it so fast José doesn’t have time to react.

José laughs and looks around, probably searching for something to throw at Benito. When he doesn’t find anything, he says, “Ah, go fuck yourself.”

“Why don’t you fuck me instead, cabrón?”

“I -- what?”

José isn’t laughing now. Benito crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. Waiting. He didn’t really mean to say it, but now that it’s out there in the air, he’s not taking it back. Better unsaid, until it’s said.

“You’re kidding,” José says.

“Sure.” Benito shrugs. “If you want me to be.”

There’s a long pause. Benito doesn’t back down, though that same tiny voice in his head says maybe he should. He _knows_ he hasn’t imagined all those little glances, little touches, the laughter that turns serious the moment their eyes meet. Someone had to make a move eventually.

He doesn’t back down. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his clasped hands, and looks José dead in the eye.

_Say I’m kidding now_, he dares him silently.

“What are you thinking?” José asks. His voice is low, serious. “We can’t just --”

He’s right, technically. Maybe Benito should’ve challenged him for something smaller -- a kiss, maybe -- and built up from there.

But he still doesn’t pull back. “Why not?”

“Why not? What do you mean, why not? We’re both straight, for one thing.”

Benito snorts. “Sure,” he says again.

“Okay, maybe not,” José concedes. “But what about Gaby?”

“What _about_ Gaby?”

“Well -- what about Val, then? You may be a cheater, Benito, but I’m not.”

Benito is already sick of arguing. He knows as well as José does that neither of their relationships are strictly monogamous. One night -- not even a _night_, just a couple of hours, max -- won’t kill them or their girlfriends. No one even has to know.

“You can make as many excuses as you want, José, but you can’t stand up and look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want this.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Do it, then.” Benito stands, then gestures for José to do the same. “Look me in the eye,” he says, and José does.

“Now say it.”

“I --” Barely one syllable in, José breaks and looks away. “Fuck you.”

“That’s all I’m asking for.”

José hums. “That’s _all_ you’re asking?”

“Well, yeah,” Benito says. “What, you think I’m asking you to be my fucking boyfriend or something? I’m not stupid. I told you what I want.”

“I mean, you’re not wanting some kind of friends with benefits situation or something? You’re just thinking about right now, tonight?”

“Yeah. Tonight. Our own little album-wrap party. Going forward will depend on how good you are.” Benito raises an eyebrow. Challenge on top of challenge.

“I’m great,” José scoffs.

“Prove it.” Benito seizes José by the arm and tugs him half a step forward.

Benito may be bigger, but José is stronger. He pulls out of Benito’s grip easily and steps back, crossing his arms and looking him in the eye again. “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it on _my_ terms, got it?”

“Got it. What are your terms, then?”

“Well…” José hesitates, cracks again. He _does_ want it. “What did _you_ have in mind? I just bend you over and --”

Benito cuts him off before he can finish the thought. “Do you have condoms? Lube?”

“No.”

“Then, no, not that. Actually, if you really want to know what I had in mind… I kind of like the idea of you on your knees.”

José’s eyes widen. He opens his mouth to say something -- as if they haven’t already said enough, as if his mouth shouldn’t already be busy doing something else -- then seems to change his mind. There’s a beat of thick silence, and then he says, “Kiss me first.”

“Oh, que romántico,” Benito smirks, but he reaches for José as he says it, and before either can say any more, their lips are locked, bodies pressed together, arms around each other.

_Finally_, Benito thinks. He tells himself it’s because they’re getting it out of the way, doing it once so he never has to think another _what-if_, but that voice is back, and it just keeps echoing _finallyfinallyfinally_.

José pushes Benito backward a step, then another, never breaking the kiss. “Back against the wall,” José says, and Benito does. He’s already rock-hard, but hearing José command him like that makes him almost desperate with want.

Almost.

“Take your shirt off,” he says, already fumbling with his own belt. José does, revealing his perfect abs, more tattoos than bare skin, the necklace that matches Benito’s resting against his breastbone.

Fuck. If Benito ever thought he was straight, he’d have been cured of that now with this sight in front of him: José, half-naked, his hard cock straining against his pants, licking his lips, one hand on Benito’s chest to hold him against the wall. Now if only he can get his own damn pants --

“Stop it.” José catches both of Benito’s hands in both of his own and moves them away from his belt. It takes him only a moment to get Benito’s pants down around his ankles. He glances down, then back up at Benito’s face. “Okay,” he admits. “Maybe I do want it.”

Benito smiles. “José, open your mouth,” he says, and with one more kiss, José does.

The sight of his friend on his knees is even better than he’d imagined. Even before José touches him, Benito is sighing, tipping his head back, ready. José strokes him with his hand once, twice, and it’s _okay_, but when his lips touch him, his tongue, Benito nearly melts. How José can claim to be straight when he’s this good at giving head --

Benito can’t even finish the thought. José takes him even deeper, back into his throat, and Benito lets out a low groan. As badly as he wants to see this, he has to close his eyes. His chest is heaving. It takes all his concentration not to finish right now, so quickly. It’s not just the physical sensation; it’s the _finally_. It’s José’s stupid big mouth, finally touching him.

“Fuck,” Benito murmurs. He looks down again. José has one hand on Benito’s hip, keeping him still against the wall, and the other alternating between rubbing himself through his pants and stroking Benito. Then his eyes flick upward, and the split-second of eye contact is almost too much.

Almost.

Benito reaches down and brushes the top of José’s head with his fingertips. It’s more gentle a touch than he intends, almost loving, and he makes up for it by thrusting his hips forward, ignoring José’s steadying hand. José makes a choked sound, but when he looks up at Benito again, there’s a smile in his eyes. A _yes_.

Another thrust, more slowly this time. José hums and rocks with him. The hum is nice, too, a subtle vibration and a confirmation that Benito isn’t the only one enjoying himself. Benito swears again. If the studio execs who first suggested that their voices might be perfect together could hear them now…

Perfect, indeed. This is so good, so _unbearably_ good, Benito doesn’t know how much more he can take. “José,” he says, and then follows it with the hardest word he’s ever said in his life: “Stop.”

José stops and looks up. The sudden empty chill of the air on Benito’s cock is nearly unbearable in an entirely different way. He wants to beg José to keep going, but he’s not ready to be finished with him yet.

“What’s wrong?” José asks.

“Bed,” Benito commands. “Now.”

Benito helps José up and they stumble toward the bed together. Benito nearly trips on his own pants, grabbing José’s arm to steady himself. He starts to curse his clothing, curse this too-big suite, curse the tiny voice that is still chanting _finallyfinallyfinally_, but José laughs, and Benito is powerless against it. He laughs, too, and kisses José again hard. 

By the time they reach the bed, José’s pants have gone the way of his shirt, and Benito’s mouth aches for him. He doesn’t bother kissing him anymore; he pushes José down onto the bed and swallows his beautiful cock without a second thought. He sighs through his nose as he takes it, and suddenly the cool air is a blessing -- one more touch, and he’d probably be over the edge himself.

“Oh, yes,” José says, and that’s all the encouragement Benito needs.

He’s never actually done this before, though he’s thought about it plenty -- but José doesn’t need to know that. He follows the rhythm of José’s body and his own instinct. José, thankfully, is not shy with praise; his moans are almost too loud, and out of the corner of his eye, Benito can see his hands trembling.

“Benito,” he says. And then, more insistently, “Benito.”

“Hmm,” is all Benito can say back.

“Benito, take off your goddamn shirt.”

He does, laughing, and _fuck_, it’s cold in this room. Why did he think getting his nipple pierced was a good idea…?

But José’s hands are warm, and, oh. _That’s_ why.

“José, I’m close,” Benito finally admits.

“Me, too.”

Benito raises an eyebrow. “Already?” He strokes José again, another challenge. José’s eyes roll back.

“Yes. Fuck, yes.”

His hips jerk upward once, twice, and then he comes into Benito’s hand, and his shuddering breath is enough. One more light brush of José’s fingers, and Benito comes, too, hard, moaning low in the back of his throat but biting his tongue to avoid saying something he might regret. As soon as José releases him, he collapses onto the bed.

He won’t admit aloud how much he enjoyed this, though he’s sure José already knows. They lie side-by-side, carefully not touching. Benito stares at the ceiling. He can still hear the party going strong without them. The only other sound in the room is their ragged breathing.

José breaks the silence, because of course he does. “I don’t want to go back.”

“Me neither,” Benito replies, hoping that José is just referring to the party.

“But I guess we have to.”

“Yeah.”

Ragged breathing again. Distant music again.

José’s hand twitches a centimeter closer to Benito’s. Benito squeezes his eyes shut. _Get up, Benito_, he tells himself, and he does. Slowly, stiffly, a little light-headed, he cleans himself up and gets dressed. The voice is quiet, finally.

But just as Benito touches the doorknob, José mumbles something that Benito doesn’t quite catch. He’s still lying there in the bed, mostly naked, his hand resting in the space where Benito’s had been a minute earlier.

Benito doesn’t want to ask. Doesn’t want to know. Better left unsaid.

He goes back to the party alone.


End file.
